What Began in Paris
by Jenthewarrior
Summary: It all started with a few glasses of wine and an intimate moment, but, as time passes, what began in Paris evolves into something Ziva and Tony would've never expected. This story follows the episodes of the show, beginning in Jetlag.
1. Paris

**This is my first NCIS fan-fiction, and though it spent a long time locked away in my mind as I watched the show, trying to catch up to the infamous episode, Jetlag, I feel that it's time to get this chapter out there. Beginning here, in a one-bed hotel room in Paris, France, the relationship between Ziva David and Tony DiNozzo began to change into something else, something that went against rule number twelve. This story will be on an episode-by-episode basis, chapters occurring before, during, or after episodes in the series. It's a hybrid fiction because it combines my desire to see the simple social interactions that never make it into the show, and my serious obsession with the relationship between these two very special agents.**

**Also, I'd like to point out that if you read this chapter and then watch the episode Jetlag, everything that happens totally fits, from Tony doing the eyebrow thing to the two of them acting dodgy and awkward when they're questioned by the witness on the plane. Also, they both lied about sleeping on the couch. Sorry, fan moment. Carry on.**

**I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and please review. I want to know if this is a story worth writing.**

XxX

Ziva David sat in the windowsill of a small, grungy hotel room, her eyes tracing the deep beige, pink, and gray cobblestones that fell under cars, horse-drawn carriages, and tourist groups. It was almost sundown in Paris, but no amount of darkness would discourage the activity in this thriving section of the city. Children raced across the streets, tossing rubber balls between them, their bare feet scuffling on the stone road; friends, couples, and families reunited below, some of them expressing a desire for privacy, some chatting about the shows and restaurants, some reminiscing about another time they'd been to this magical place; dogs and cats moved through the alleys, along the windowsills, and across the catwalks that connected some adjacent apartments, begging for food, affection, and simple companionship; and her partner, Tony, waited in a bakery across the street, looking up and grinning at her every now and then, overwhelmed like a child in a toy store as he explored the fleeting delicacies of the oven. She preferred the stay in, avoiding the crowds and nursing her shoulder blades after a turbulent plane ride and an awkward napping position in the cab they'd taken from the airport. The two of them, though an effective team, were opposite in that respect, finding different niches in this bustling place.

Her eyes moved from the cobblestones to the children, who were starting a game of soccer in the alley that ran alongside the hotel. She moved to the other window to watch them, her leg dangling in the free air, her head relaxed against the sill. It was a silly thought, but she felt like she was living, at least for the moment, in an old romance novel. It reminded her of Israel and the summer she spent in one of the world's oldest cities. One of the girls, whose face was covered with dirt, but whose blue eyes shone bright and lively, looked up and saw Ziva sitting there. She gave her a brilliant smile and waved, spurring the other children to do the same. Ziva waved back, unable to help a small smile, and greeted them in French, encouraging them to get on with their game so she would have something to watch.

Tony returned a few minutes later, coming to her shoulder to watch the kids play, looking as if he wanted to join them. When he left again, apparently to compliment his pastries with some kind of special beverage, Ziva turned to look at the bed, a central point of thought for her since they'd arrived. It was full-sized and acceptably comfortable, but it was the only bed in the room, and apparently this hotel didn't stock cots. It was the bed, or the old, beaten, semi-length couch standing stiffly against the far wall, looming like a relic from another century. At the moment it held their suitcases. The only other option was a society piece, a fancy straight-backed chair with curved wooden legs, chipped, gold-painted armrests, and a height deficiency. She'd already tried to sit in it, but the idea of sleeping there all night made her bones ache. She thought about making Tony to sleep on the ratty couch, in the torture chair, or on the un-sanded floor, but it seemed too cruel, even as payback for his nonstop talking on the plane. She didn't dislike anyone enough to leave them to that cruel fate – and his complaining would be unbearable.

Sighing, she circled the bed and stripped off the sheets, having allowed herself to listen to some of what Tony had said. He was convinced hotels were only used for sex, and that the sheets hadn't been washed properly after the last 'session.' She took them to the public laundry house, escorted by her partner, who returned just in time to tell her how awful both the drinks and the pastries had been. They sat together on the bench near their machine, flipping through old magazines, avoiding the eyes of curious strangers, and trying to get the cat with long, greasy fur to stop rubbing against their legs. She forced Tony to help her remake the bed and advised him to fluff his own pillows, after which she went back to the window to check on the kids below. Her back began to ache again, but she was spared by Tony, who handed her some pain relief pills and a glass of water, claiming he was tired of watching her walk around like a pregnant woman, her hands pressed into the small of her back. She tried not to be offended by that comment.

Hours passed and they wandered around, sometimes together, sometimes separately. Ziva spent a while reading on the bed, enjoying the way the sunlight felt on her bare toes, and she went dress-shopping, finding a summer dress made of satin, which danced along her legs in a way that made her feel beautiful. Tony brought back every type of food within a five-mile radius, though he was mostly disappointed by the 'un-American' taste. By the time he settled down to fill out paperwork beside her, his body casting a shadow across her book, the sun was beginning to set. Ziva got up to watch the streets thin out, now filled with a different type of crowd. Young men and women crowded around performers who showed off their skill. She was watching a man set up his guitar from the front window as Tony paced around the room like a dog in a kennel.

He shuffled through his pamphlets, sitting across from her in the wide windowsill, and handed her one at a time, requesting an opinion to help guide his decision. She rejected the first, her nose wrinkling at the choice words written in French across the front, and then took an interest in the second, finding that some type of fighting match was going on in the middle of town. He took it, examined it, asked her to translate, and then balled it up. He handed her a third, tossing the rest into the trashcan, and crouched by her side, reading it with her. She was sure he was only attracted by the bright colors splashed across the front, and the only word he could understand, "Sinatra."

"It is an impersonator, Tony," she advised him, though she was already in the mirror brushing her hair. He was in the main room straightening his button-up shirt, applying cologne, and trying to get his collar right without looking at it. She leaned out, a long curl captured in her brush, and shook her head. "I can't see why you're so excited. It is not the real Frank Sinatra."

He smiled easily, coming over to request help with his collar. As she was fixing it, he explained, "I know it's not the _real_ Sinatra, but you underestimate how awesome it is to _pretend_ we're seeing Sinatra perform live. Suspension of disbelief, David. Try it sometime." He walked off, and then turned, pointing a rigid finger at her. "And it's impressionist, not impersonator."

She shrugged. "Same thing."

"When does the sun set in Paris? Don't answer that. I have an app." He smiled again as she rolled her eyes. He dug his phone out of his pocket and flopped down on the bed, crossing his ankles leisurely as he ticked through the menus. He popped up almost immediately, his face full of a new sense of urgency. "It's gone in ten – that's when the concert starts. Get a move on."

She could've easily let him go alone, turning in early for the night, lying down to rest her throbbing muscles, but she wanted to experience Paris as he did, if only for this night. She marveled at his happiness, how he could be so gleeful even though his experience had been ruined so far by food he disliked, horrible accommodations, and a street view hotel. She was also ravenous, and she knew that, being the gentleman that he sometimes pretended to be, he may offer to pay for dinner.

She looped her arms into one of his, just like society women did in the movies, and they strolled toward the center of town, where music could already be heard above the chatter. Tony was practically bouncing all the way there. "If you squint, it looks like the real Sinatra. Abby's gonna be so jealous. I bet I can get a picture that looks like it's the real Sinatra, and then I can send it to her. This is gonna be great. Sinatra here we come!"

XxX

It was everything he said it would be, and more. He treated her like a lady of the highest society, pulling out all of his charm, his gentle smiles, and his gentlemanly behaviors. When they sat down for dinner, he helped her into his chair and then plopped down in his own, groaning and loosening his belt. She smiled at him, amused, and ordered in French. He attempted the same thing, failed miserably, and then grumbled until the food came, insisting that he was right and everyone else was wrong. They were seated on a deck overlooking the sparkling river, where dream and reality clashed – Ziva thought this was the most beautiful thing she'd seen yet, just couples sitting out by the water, boats gliding by as the soft voices of the rowers flowed through the wind, and a thick web of stars reflected perfectly in that tranquil black water. The excellent view was matched with excellent food, which steamed up their wine glasses and gave Tony a reason to stop pouting. He broke his gentleman's façade when he stole one of her mushrooms and then tried to lie about it, all the while chewing the squeaky evidence. Ziva took some of his lasagna – the cheesiest part – and shoved it in her mouth, only serving to burn her own tongue and amuse the other patrons by downing an entire glass of water and then gasping for air.

It went on like this for over an hour, the two of them acting like children, joking and laughing in the moonlight, talking about home and work, about the people they'd seen in the streets, and the performances they'd passed by. He'd disliked the sweets he'd purchased so far, and he was determined to make a trip to a famous bakery in the morning. She'd agreed to accompany him because he swore there would be Danishes, and the thought of biting into a fresh blueberry Danish made her mouth water. The waiter kept filling their glasses with wine, giving them a heavy buzz which dragged their conversation down several levels of intellect. Tony kept sending McGee the same text message demanding that he 'flip the coin,' whatever that meant, and Ziva began speaking different languages to the people around them, sometimes unsure of exactly what she was saying. She only knew that her tongue felt like a piece of rubber.

Ziva feared they would get pulled over on the moped Tony had rented, not because being drunk impaired his driving skills, but because on that two-wheeled death-trap he _had_ no driving skills. He'd almost killed them on it twice when they arrived in the city earlier that day and he'd been perfectly sober. Because of that fear, her slightly intoxicated mind, and the fact that she wanted to torment Tony, she made him push it on the sidewalk while she walked alongside, looking up at the open windows, examining street names and shadowy faces. She moved in a zigzag, mostly zigging at the same time as Tony and crashing into him.

It was nearly midnight when they finally got back to the hotel room, both of them exhausted, but still smiling dopily like two teenagers coming back from an epic party. Ziva curled up immediately on the right side of the bed, closest to the window and the door, and tucked the covers around herself, slipping off her shoes and socks and letting them thunk loudly onto the floor. It felt incredible to lay down despite the hard, lumpy bed. She could've fallen asleep without another conscious thought, but she didn't.

Her partner lifted the covers behind her and slipped in, shocking her bare legs with cold air. She curled a little tighter, listening as he kicked off the same things she had and tucked his gun under his pillow, carefully putting the safety on. He faced her back, reaching out to prod her shoulder with on finger. "Ziva, you awake?"

"Yes," she murmured, not opening her eyes.

"Can I have one of your pillows?"

"No."

"It's just… I have this back thing-"

"Go to sleep."

Her voice came out as an affectionate purr. She'd wanted to strangle him on the plane and when he'd forced her to take a picture with the Sinatra impersonator, but in this state of mind, Ziva was helpless to the affection she harbored for Tony. He was her partner and her best friend, a stalwart figure in her life, a protector, a guardian, a shoulder to cry on – but here and now he seemed so much different. She was drunk enough to admit to herself how effectively he'd won her heart, despite her barriers, despite her opposition to some of the things he did. She loved him in so many ways, some that she couldn't even begin to understand.

She rolled over to face him, clinging to that thought, which seemed so wonderful at the time. He was watching her, his expression illuminated by the light pouring through the open windows. She could tell he was thinking along the same lines as her. She felt affection, adoration, and familiarity, all the makings of love, humming on her skin just from the touch of his eyes.

He smiled sleepily, pressing his lips together. "Careful, Ziva, you almost look happy."

She snorted. "Why would I be _un_happy?"

"You've been grumpy all day," he pointed out, folding one arm under his pillow and nuzzling his face into it. His eyes rolled shut. "I almost thought you didn't want to be here."

As her eyes flickered over his face, she wondered why she hadn't seen him in this light before. He looked so different, so soft, so approachable. With the alcohol dimming her senses, and hormones running rampant in her body, Ziva began to think about everything that had ever attracted her to Tony – he was strong and clever, never backing down, even though he frequently needed her to save him, and he was as moral and upstanding as Gibbs. He had always protected her, and whenever another man flirted with her, he'd become possessive and appear disturbed. Why hadn't she noticed that before? Now it seemed so obvious, as did the desire to be held by those arms.

Before her thoughts could travel any further – or any lower – Ziva turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. She couldn't think of him in that way. He was her partner and her friend, but not her lover. Besides, it was against the rules to be with him. Gibbs would kill them both. And it was just the alcohol – if anything happened between them, she'd never forgive herself.

Tony's eyes opened and he stretched out his arm, which came to rest across her stomach. She shivered. "Cold?" he wondered, half-asleep. She nodded, having no other explanation for her reaction. He wrapped his hand against her stomach and dragged her toward him. She didn't resist, curling willingly into his hold. _What am I doing?_

He pressed his face against the back of her neck, his skin soft against hers, his breath rolling in warm waves down her neck. She went rigid, her blood boiling at the closeness she'd never expected, and then another breath flowed down the nape of her neck and she was able to relax. His arm tightened around her. She tilted her head back, accepting a few soft, sweet kisses to the sensitive skin of her shoulders, allowing his lips to slide up her jaw, to suckle at her ear. She laid her arm over his and twined their fingers, her thumb running over his wrist.

He held her that way through the night, his arms protecting her against the cold, his face buried in her neck, his legs against hers, his chest rising and falling against her back. When he spoke, he still sounded like the same man, childish and silly, which seemed like the best thing in the world to her. She didn't think about it too much, hoping in the only sober part of her mind that this was all a dream, and that she'd wake up in the morning on her own side of the bed, far away from breaking her own rules.

But, when morning came, Tony made it perfectly clear that he remembered everything.


	2. There Is No Arizona

**This chapter takes place in the dead center of season seven, episode sixteen (7x16)**__**"Mother's Day," set during Tony and Ziva's long drive to Arizona to chase down a lead – I refuse to believe they took a plane. Don't ruin my fun. Anyway, they never said they didn't drive (winky face). I figured a long car ride couldn't go without a little conversation and, considering this episode features Gibbs' former mother in law – mother of his wife, Shannon – the theme of the conversation naturally goes to mothers.**

XxX

One hour out of Knoxville, Tennessee, it was finally his turn to drive, and even though his head was throbbing and his back was aching like he'd spent the last eight hours curled up in a ball, he willingly took the driver's seat and rested his right hand on the wheel. Steep ravines fell away on the right, and mountains jutted upward on the left, both of them intimidating to a man who would much rather be driving in city traffic. Ziva was unbothered by the shadow and the foreboding 'beware of rock falls' signs. She was reclined in her chair, her bare feet on the dash, a worn copy of the Constitution held delicately in both hands. She'd read it so many times that she started leafing through the pages like it was a magazine.

Tony set the pace a little slower and cranked up the Bon Jovi, letting Jon caterwaul through the falling darkness. It only stayed that way for a moment – Ziva rolled her window down, letting the sound of the wind drown out his music. He followed suite, tired of hearing the same songs anyway. Ziva closed her book, stored it under her thigh, and then curled on her side like a content cat, her head resting where the window had been, her hair fluttering freely in the fierce wind. Tony watched her doubtfully, unsure of how long she could go without committing bug genocide with her forehead, but he said nothing. He chose a softer song on his CD, set the cruise control, and guided the car smoothly down the curvy mountain roads. He stretched out his legs, slid the seat back, and relaxed, singing to himself, his eyes always searching the dark road for danger.

Several hours passed before Ziva sat up and slid inward, rubbing her arms. She rolled up both of their windows, smoothed her hair down, retrieved his coat from the back seat, and then wrapped it completely around herself. She stared at him. He glanced over, sticking his tongue out to provoke a sharp giggle. He popped the heat on. Ziva heaved a sigh, which sounded quite wistful, and reached for the volume dial, turning it down until 'Dead or Alive' was just a hum in the background. She stared at the lit display for a while, thinking.

"What was your mother like?" she asked softly, her voice barely heard above the whispering radio. When he looked at her, he saw that she more exhausted than when she'd gone to sleep. Whatever she'd dreamt about, it had been far from restful.

He shrugged. "Five-five and a half. Brown hair. Blue eyes."

Ziva laughed, the sound of which temporarily stifled his growing concern. He always suspected she was deeply wounded by what happened in Somalia, but she never spoke of it. Every now and then he sensed it in her, drowning her, putting out her flame. He tried to look through the simple amusement on her face, to see something other than the very surface of her emotions, but she shut them down almost immediately. She watched him with those quiet eyes, which spoke only the things she wanted him to hear. "You know what I meant. What was she _like_?" She shrugged his coat on, her wide eyes piercing in this light. "I've always been curious about American mothers. How did she act in the morning when she got you out of bed? Did she read to you? Did she let your friends come to your house and play?"

"No," he chuckled, unable to hide how tickled he was by her enthusiasm. She had a way of working herself up. "My mom had a _job_. You know, the worky kind? When she wasn't working, she was sleeping, and when she wasn't sleeping or working, she was out."

"Out where?"

"Just out."

His hand clenched around the steering wheel. The plastic groaned. Ziva looked at his white knuckles, and then back at his face, her eyes narrowing with apprehension. He relaxed as soon as he was free of the images her questions provoked. He put on a friendly face and stared at the road as he spoke to her. "What about yours?"

"I am told she was a kind woman… we were never close." She turned frontward like he had, crossing her arms over her chest. "I guess seeing Gibbs with his mother-in-law made me remember her… I dreamt of her." She clenched her jaw. "She is like the desert in many ways – dry and lifeless, drained of whatever made her… passionate." He was suddenly torn between watching the road and studying her face, fascinated with her words, but just a little more eager to live through the night. "Whatever she lost," Ziva went on, her tone reflecting fear, "Whoever she buried because of bombers, because of the war… it was heavy in her heart. I never loved her."

He smiled thoughtfully in response to her somber expression, finding his eyes tracing the path ahead, anything to stop himself from looking over at her. His mind was full of trivial questions that meant nothing to his adult life – did he love his mom? Did she love him? He'd felt for her, he'd done things to help her, he'd tried to get her attention, but he'd never seen enough of her to love her. He cared more for the parents of his friends, who often looked after him.

Having nothing else to say, but wishing to pull her out of her state of sadness, Tony reached over and grasped her hand, earning himself a startled look. She jerked away from his touch and looked to the road again, avoiding his eyes. "Now is not the time," she murmured.

_Time for what?_ He frowned and looked forward again, letting go of the breath he'd been holding. Did she think he was trying to make a joke? He couldn't really blame her for that. It was his shtick.

Somehow he kept driving until around two in the morning, at which point he pulled over and let her take the wheel. He fell asleep almost immediately, dreaming of his slippers, which were suddenly ravenous for his flesh. His mind even wandered back to Paris, where he had a pleasant dream about Ziva – it was the kind he didn't share. He woke up with his face mashed into the window, his nose twisted awkwardly against the glass. Ziva was sitting on a white picnic table a few yards away. He got out and took in the rising sun while he stretched, appreciating the warmth as it contrasted with the chilly night. He nabbed some of her Danish and wolfed it down.

"Hey!" she objected, smiling. She threw her thermos at him as he fled, hitting him square in the back and knocking a kink out of his spine.

"Hay's for horses," he responded, feigning another attempt on her breakfast as he walked back by her. She jerked away, narrowing her eyes threateningly. He held up his hands, jogging into the rest area to protect himself in case she decided to throw her knife.

He got some jerky from the vending machine, checked the date, grimaced, and then decided he would have to risk it. His stomach was growling and he felt light-headed from skipping dinner. Ziva was chugging coffee, and as he sat beside her she leaned very slightly into his shoulder, smiling in a friendly way. Whatever offense she'd felt last night, it was gone now.

He couldn't help himself. "So, you were very… sharing… last night."

Her face changed almost instantaneously. She set her coffee down, wiped her mouth, and looked at him with blank, expressionless eyes. "Sorry. It won't happen again."

He twisted his lips, ignoring the advice of the little angel on his shoulder. _Stop while you're behind, buddy_. "I didn't say it was bad. You're like little Gibbs – before you know it, you'll be making boats in a dark basement, drinking scotch from a jar with a cellphone in it."

She chuckled, finishing off her Danish in one bite. When she was done, she balled it up, tossed the plastic into the trash, and hopped off the bench. "I would appreciate it if you kept what I said between us. I… I don't know why I said it, but I shouldn't have."

He watched her wander around the gift store, avoiding conversation through innocent browsing. He finished his breakfast, motioned to her, and got into the driver's seat, cranking the car and setting the volume to its highest level. He let Bon Jovi be the filler between them, finally listening to reason and letting her words lie unchallenged. If she wanted to talk, she would talk.


End file.
